


Straight On ‘til Morning

by hellonik



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Music Store, Fluff, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellonik/pseuds/hellonik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein nothing happens. No, really. Or: AU where Darren works in an off-beat music store, for a given definition of the term, in LA, and Chris has just relocated. They meet, inevitably, and some sort of courtship ensues. Inevitably. No Glee. (title taken from Peter Pan.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straight On ‘til Morning

**Author's Note:**

> **music:** in order of appearance | references to [Penny Lane](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jd-oLhJQne0) \- The Beatles | [Slow It Down](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3s12KxrqUsU) \- The Lumineers | [Down In The Valley](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2iSQGWpy0qY) \- The Head and the Heart | [I Want to Break Free](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BsFZHJ-ZhWk) \- Queen | [The Gambler](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ZDyjyKL5vY) \- Fun.  
>  i really hope this, at the very least, makes you smile.<3 if you do enjoy it, please feel free to let me know – you can’t possibly know how much i love to hear from you.
> 
> [fanart is here](http://kobean.tumblr.com/post/57181422284/crisscolfer-au-in-which-darren-works-at-a-music) \- absolutely lovely and absolutely perfect, i could really cry<3

Chris walks down the sidewalk on a street he isn’t quite sure of the name of because he lost track three lefts ago. He is – deeply and vividly uncomfortable, because it’s _hot_ , and the Diet Coke he’d bought and downed in three gulps is sort of giving him a stomach ache; his jeans and t-shirt are clinging in the worst ways, the sunglasses perched on his nose keep sliding down, and he can feel sweat gathering on his upper lip, drips of it sliding down the line of his spine.

  
He grew up in _Clovis_ – he should be used to this kind of heat. It’s sticky and heavy, like a second layer clinging to his skin, sinking into his blood so even his skin runs hot. He can see heat waves curving above the sidewalk not ten feet from him. Even so, he’s desperate to get out of it.

  
He gives in, ducking into the nearest shop, just for a minute. He just needs one minute of air-conditioned space and then he can keep going, get to the coffee shop where he’s meeting Ashley and bemoan his apparent idiocy because he _walked_ five blocks to get there in hundred-degree weather.

  
He feels a blast of cool air the moment he steps in, the door swinging shut behind him, can’t help but close his eyes, tip his head back a little, taking in quiet little gasps of breath. He feels like he might actually cry with relief.

  
He pushes his glasses up on his head, finally tips his head forward and opens his eyes only to startle at the man standing in front of him, just that bit too close for a stranger.

  
Chris blinks, breathes, taking in the mass of curly hair, pushed back from his forehead with a beanie, and Buddy Holly glasses, worn plaid, the shadow of scruff across a strong jaw, down his neck – and then gets distracted by bright eyes and an open smile, everything about him loose and easy.

  
“Hey! You look like you’re about to melt into our floors.”

  
Chris swallows, throat clicking - replies, voice gone a little high, “I. Hot. It’s very, very hot. I promise I’m usually more eloquent than this but I think my brain is melting with me, so.”

  
The man laughs, eyes crinkling with it, “It’s totally fine, you want some water? We have a fridge in the back.”

  
Chris’s stomach still hurts from the soda he downed five minutes ago.

  
“Yes. Please.”

  
The man bobs his head, looking pleased, but then his eyes drift to Chris’s hand, where the half-crushed can is still in his grip. Chris winces internally, offers up a smile even as he feels heat climbing up his neck. He lifts the can, shaking it a little.

  
“This is, ah, old. I could really use some water.”

  
The man nods again, says, as he’s turning on his toes and gesturing for Chris to follow him toward the back, “Yeah, of course, it’s hot as Satan’s fucking balls out there.”

  
Chris chokes on a laugh, abrupt and surprised. The man glances back with a wicked grin sliding onto his face, eyes flashing a little.

  
“I’m Darren, by the way. I probably should’ve introduced myself.”

  
Chris glances around at the – record store? he’s apparently walked into. There are hundreds of vintage records pinned to the walls and rows and rows of stands filled with them – he sees other rows with CDs though, and one wall filled with different instruments. There’s also what looks to be a stage with big mismatched loveseats arranged in front of it at the far end, near the register.

  
Chris is sort of confused.

  
“I was just going to keep calling you different names in my head until something stuck, but I suppose we can stick with Darren. I’m Chris.”

  
Darren laughs as he leads them into a back room with a table and fridge, pulling out a water bottle and handing it to Chris. Chris smiles gratefully, cracking it open and taking a drink that is certainly not long enough for someone who’s supposedly dying for water.

  
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Chris. What name did you stop at?”

  
Chris grins a little, replying without missing a beat, “Penny Lane.”

  
Darren barks out a laugh, eyebrows going up, hums out, sotto voice, “ _Penny Lane, there is a barber showing photographs_ …”

  
Chris slants a smile at him, eyes the substantial amount of hair on Darren’s head and says, “Can’t imagine why I’d make that connection.” And then, “Maybe I’m just clever.”  


  
Darren breaks out in laughter again.  “Oh, I believe it,” he volleys back, nose crinkling a little.

  
Chris feels something unsettle in him, realizes that he has no idea how to respond to that because he’s pretty sure it’s flirting, with the way Darren’s voice dips low and a little playful, the way he’s still looking at Chris, his bright-eyed, open-mouthed grin.

  
“You’ve never been here, right?”

  
Chris blinks, because, “What?”

  
But Darren’s just nodding, voice going coy and head tipping down, eyes up, as he says, “No, no, you haven’t. I’d remember you.”

  
“I. Um. Yeah – no, I haven’t. I actually don’t even know exactly what this place _is_.”

  
Chris feels too warm again, like he’s out in the heat still, skin running hot.

  
Darren laughs as he leads him back out to the store, nodding. “Yeah, it’s a little bit of everything. Anything to do with music is acceptable, really. We even have sheet music somewhere in here.”

  
Chris takes it in again, a little more closely now. It looks a little chaotic, a little cluttered, but  welcoming. There’s a few people milling around but most of the customers are sitting on the floor in-between rows, more than one wearing big, brightly-colored headphones, nodding along to whatever they’re listening to while they flip through the big stacks of records they’ve no doubt pulled from the stands.  


  
Chris wonders if the owners were aiming for “ironic” and no one got the memo.

  
“The stage?”

  
Darren’s eyes go bright, enthusiastic, “Oh, we have an open-mic night. Sort of. People just sign up and then get up there and do their thing – we get a lot of musicians, some writers who read their stuff. Um, there’s this one guy who gets up once a month and does interpretive dance.”

  
Chris laughs, a little disbelieving, a little fascinated.

  
Darren shrugs at him, easy and unconcerned, looks genuinely sincere when he says, “He’s actually really good. Really puts his heart into it.”

  
_Oh, God,_ Chris thinks, smiling, something warm twisting in his stomach.

  
“I’ll have to check it out, then.” Chris offers, eyebrow quirking.

  
Darren smiles playfully, says, “I’ll keep an eye out for you,” with a wink.

  
Before Chris can figure out some way to respond to _that_ , Darren’s talking again.

  
“I know you just came in here to escape the insane fucking heat, but you should really look around, chill here for a while. It’s really awesome, I promise.”  


  
Chris feels startled for a second, becoming abruptly aware of just how long he’s been here, Ashley having completely slipped his mind.  


  
“Oh, shit. I gotta go, actually – meeting a friend of mine. Um. I’ll – I’ll be back, though. This place actually does look really cool. I think my brain is a little heat-addled, because I honestly have no idea what street I’m on right now. Do you have a card with an address?”  
Chris knows that he’s talking really, really quickly, sounds a little frantic - he hates feeling rushed.

  
Darren looks far too amused, something a little sly about the quirk of his smile, the tilt of his head. Chris thinks if he wasn’t so charming he’d call him on it.

  
“Ah, I don’t actually think so? Here, give me your phone number, I’ll text it to you, since you look like you’re going to stroke out in a second if you don’t get on your way.”

  
Chris laughs, does not think too hard about giving his number to a boy like this because he’s just being _nice_ and Chris could really, really use some friends here who aren’t Ashley and instead rattles off his number and makes sure Darren has it before he’s flying out the door.

  
He thinks he might hear Darren laughing behind him but clearly Darren is a little bit of an asshole and apparently Chris finds that particular quality really, really appealing.

  
~

  
By the time Chris makes it the next two blocks to the small, hole-in-the-wall coffee shop with obscenely comfortable armchairs he and Ashley always meet at, he’s sweating again, panting slightly, and stumbling over his apologies as he rushes to the table Ashley’s sitting at, all quirked eyebrow and pursed lips.

  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I got – it’s horrifyingly hot out there and I _walked_ and I’m – I don’t _cope_ well with heat, you know. I’m - so sorry.”

  
Ashley waves his apologies away, disconcertingly magnanimous, nudging his half-melted iced-coffee at him while he all but collapses on the seat across from her.

  
“It’s fine. You _walked_ here? What the hell were you thinking? It’s literally hell out there right now.”

  
He’s sucking down his coffee in gulps, waving a hand at her and nodding.

  
“Yeah, yes, stupid idea, I know. But I’ve been here for a month and I haven’t seen nearly as much of the city as I wanted to. I thought walking here might – remedy that slightly. Clearly I chose the wrong day,” he offers, voice wry.

  
“Try the wrong _season_ , boo.”

  
Chris laughs, manages to veer them off-topic with years-honed skill, and doesn’t mention Darren even once.

  
~

  
Ashley’s in the living room of the tiny apartment he lives in – and shares with a flighty, sexually flexible roommate named Bailey who’s hardly around because he inevitably crashes at a friend-of-a-friend’s after partying all night – while Chris is in the kitchen dicing tomatoes for omelets. His phone goes off, vibrating against the counter, an unfamiliar number popping up.

_Hey, man! It’s Darren. I was gonna text you the address_  
 _but I don’t actually know it._  
 _Sorry!_  
 _But I know how to get here from pretty much any place in the city_  
 _so I can send directions instead?_

**Hey! Yeah, that’s fine.**  
 **How can you work there but not know the address?**

_Oh, good, it’s you!_  
 _I was half-convinced you’d give me a number to like_  
 _a mob boss or something_

**Do I look like the kind of boy who has the personal number of major crime lords?**  


_You look like the kind of boy who has a certain capacity._  
 _Which is immensely more frightening._

**I’m honestly not sure what that means.**  


_It’s not a bad thing. It’s intriguing._  
 _I like intriguing._  
 _Anyway, I don’t know the address because I sort of stumbled in one day?_  
 _And into a job all at once._  
 _Never bothered to look._

**You seem like the type to just “stumble in” to good things.**  
 **Directions if I’m coming from Silver Lake?**

_I’m honestly not sure what that means._  
 _You live in Silver Lake??_  
 _Holy shit_

**No, just near enough**  


_You think I’m a creepy stalker don’t you_  


**You have a certain capacity**  


_I am offended by that implication_  


**I’m not really implying anything**  
 **so much as stating it**  
 **outright.**  
 **I’d even be willing to have it put in writing**

_Rude_  


**You totally just did the finger-point, didn’t you?**  


_Rude and psychic._  
 _Scary._

**Occasionally**  


_Directions coming your way._  
 _We’re actually having that open-mic thing tomorrow._  
 _We just call it stage night._  
 _You should stop by, if you can!_

**Yeah, I think I can make it.**  
 **Should be**  
 **interesting**

_I’m sensing skepticism_  


**I’m open to having my mind changed**  


_So it shall be, kind sir_  


**We’ll see**  


  
He drops his phone, a smile playing across his lips, just as Ashley walks in. He’s just finished plating their food, so he hands her a plate and she follows him back to the couch with narrowed eyes.

  
“What’s got that grin on your face?”

  
“Nothing. Just talking to a friend. A guy I met today at this random music store.”

  
“A friend? Or a _friend_? “

  
“Oh my God, no, just a friend, no emphasis.”

  
“Does this friend happen to have a name?”

  
She has a shifty look in her eyes, mouth slanting in a smirk, and Chris is instantly wary.

  
“Darren,” he replies, slowly.

  
He can practically _hear_ the alarm bells go off when the look on her face intensifies.

  
“Stop.”

  
“Stop what?”

  
“Whatever it is you have in that twisted, devious little brain of yours right now.”

  
She grins at him, attempting to come off innocent and succeeding only in looking entirely  untrustworthy.  


  
“I wasn’t thinking anything. Except I’m glad you’ve met someone new – getting the whole LA experience and all that.”

  
Chris eyes her, eyebrow raised. She just glances up, flashing a bright grin, before examining her omelet more closely.

  
“Oh, are those tomatoes? _And_ cheese? Someone’s feeling fancy today.”

  
Chris snorts, shoving her shoulder.

  
“There was a sale. Shut up and eat before I rescind my generous offer of actual fresh food.”

  
Ashley pokes him in the thigh with her fork, grinning.

  
“You already know that once you give me food you are _not_ getting it back, baby. You’re adorable, though,” she says, voice almost cloyingly sweet.

  
Chris pokes her back, murmuring, “Yeah, yeah, just eat your damn food. I don’t know why we’re friends.”

  
Ashley leans over, kissing him on the cheek and saying, gleefully, “Because you love me, Mr. Colfer.”

  
He sighs heavily and presses play on the DVD remote, settling in to watch Downton Abbey like they always do.

  
“Clearly I’m inept at choosing good friends.”

  
_“So adorable.”_   


  
Chris laughs and leans into her, cutting into his omelet.

  
“Shush, it’s starting.”

  
“Like a _kitten,_ ” she whispers.

  
~

  
When Chris walks into the record store the next night, there are people _everywhere_ \- in the rows, examining the instruments, crowded around the stage; some in clusters and others off by themselves. There are fairy lights lining the ceiling in the otherwise dim room, a bright light shining on the empty stage.

  
What really catches Chris’s attention is the vintage chrome microphone that the light is centered on - Chris feels his fingers itch to get it in his hands.

  
Chris glances around and catches sight of Darren around the same time he seems to catch sight of Chris. He grins wide, saying something quickly to the guy in the black leotard he was talking to, before making his way to Chris.

  
“Chris, hey! You made it!”

  
Chris finds himself smiling, something warm and pleased trickling through him. “Hey, yeah, I made it. This place looks amazing.”

Darren glances around, head nodding, looking pleased.

  
“Thanks, man. It takes some time but people seem to enjoy the ambiance.”

  
Chris laughs, thinks that Darren’s maybe a little bit ridiculous.

  
“I’m sure the interpretive dancer appreciates it. That was him, right?”

  
Darren grins, nodding, “That was him. Don’t judge him yet, he’s actually pretty talented!”

  
Before Chris can reply it seems like everyone in the store is shouting at Darren at once, telling him to _get on stage, it’s time to start_. Chris laughs again and Darren’s laughing with him as he reaches over and squeezes Chris’s arm – “Let me find you after, if we get separated, okay? We can go get food or something,” before he’s weaving his way through the crowd and bounding on stage.  


  
Chris finds a seat closer to the stage, next to a girl with purple dreadlocks and a guy wearing a bright blue sweater-vest, while Darren talks, voice textured and a little grainy through the microphone, and absolutely the coolest sound Chris has ever heard.

  
“We’ve got some regulars here tonight, of course, and some newbies, so everyone try to behave.”

  
Darren on stage is just as engaging and charismatic as Darren in person, his smile and laugh infectious, pulling everyone’s attention.

  
“You know the rules - no booing, always clap afterward, or snap, or whistle, or whatever you’re all into this week. We don’t wanna’ discourage art here, ever. I’m kinda’ tiny so I can’t kick anyone out but Old Man Joe is here and he can take anyone in this room. Keep that in mind.”

  
There’s more laughter and Darren says a few more words before he’s bouncing his way to Chris and letting the first act introduce herself.

  
Darren stays by his side through the performances – Chris is aware of their shoulders occasionally brushing, the touch of Darren’s hand to his forearm when he wants Chris to really pay attention to whoever’s on stage, as if Chris’s eyes aren’t glued there already – but it’s mostly a blur. There’s a little bit of everything – a guy who paints an entire picture within the length of a song, an A Capella group, a spoken word poet, a novelist reading excerpts.

  
Chris thinks all the creativity in the room is infectious, can feel his mind picking up pace.

  
It’s not until the end that Darren squeezes Chris’s arm, says, quietly, “Remember to wait for me,” before he makes his way through the crowd again. Chris blinks, confused, and then Darren’s on stage with a guitar strapped to his back, grinning and completely at ease while he playfully introduces himself.

  
Darren singing is sort of a revelatory experience – his voice is a little wild, sometimes smooth and sometimes catching in his throat like a growl, and it sounds so entirely _honest_ ; the sweet, aching breaks in his voice sounding real enough that there are shivers racing up Chris’s back. He spends the entire song – _and when it came to love, we were not good enough_ , - feeling like he’s holding his breath.

  
~

  
Chris waits for Darren, who’s accepting compliments from everyone he passes, leaning against the register. When Darren finally gets to him he’s sweating a little, curls wilder than before, grinning wide.

  
“Sorry, sorry, there’s so many people tonight! You hungry? I know this amazing noodle house in Little Tokyo. It’s a drive, but it’s worth it.”

  
Chris wants to tell him something about how amazing he is, how his voice makes Chris’s lungs creak in his chest, but he smiles instead, says, “Yeah, I’m actually kind of starving.”

  
“Excellent, because so am I. And hey, my treat, since I’ve kept you here so long.”

  
Chris blinks, already shaking his head, “Darren, that’s really nice but no, I can’t let you do that, that’s –“

  
But Darren just grabs his arm and walks him outside, completely unfazed, and Chris’s protests die out.

  
“Meet me there? I’ll text you directions.” Darren says, still grinning.

  
“I have a feeling I’m going to regret becoming friends with you,” Chris says slowly, eyebrows raised.

  
Darren laughs, this loud, sudden bark of a thing that has a grin pulling at Chris’s lips.

  
“Oh, we’re going to get along spectacularly.”

  
Later, at the noodle house that _is_ , in fact, delicious, after Chris has rhapsodized about the particular atmosphere of the tiny, privately owned bookstore that he works at and Darren has expounded upon his very sincere love of watching terrible movies just to hate them, Chris finally gets around to mentioning how talented he thinks Darren is, and Darren’s thank you is very quiet and very sincere.

  
Chris will think, later, that every story has a beginning.

  
~

  
“Why did I let this happen?” Chris groans, jogging on a park track alongside a grinning Darren, sweat beading along his hairline, lungs burning.

  
“Exercise is good for the soul! Or something.”

  
Chris glares at him darkly – not everyone is Darren. Darren, _dripping_ with sweat, eyes bright and cheeks flushed, looks like he’s _luxuriating_ in it. Darren soaks up LA heat like it’s what makes his blood warm – Chris has never met anyone who revels so much in _exertion._  


  
“I would rather do yoga with Bailey. And yoga with Bailey is a _miserable_ experience, Darren.”

  
Darren glances at him, eyebrow quirked. “Not so flexible, are we?”

  
Chris scoffs, snipes between pants, “Hey, I am _bendy,_ okay - I was Gumby in another life. Bailey just spends the whole time convinced I’m not breathing correctly and insists on telling me that every two minutes. It makes me want to punch him in the throat.”

  
Darren murmurs, slyly, “ _Bendy_.”

  
Chris clears his throat. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it.”

  
“I wasn’t thinking anything. You’ve got a filthy mind, Christopher,” Darren replies, a slow-reveal smile pulling at his lips, eyes glittering soft-sharp.

  
“You’re full of shit.”

  
Darren huffs out a laugh, reaches over and presses his hand to Chris’s lower back.

  
“ _Fine_ , we can stop now. I’ll buy you a milkshake for your troubles.”

  
“And french-fries,” Chris informs him, coming to a stop.

  
Darren looks _delighted_ , pulling Chris close and fitting an arm around his waist, squeezing affectionately.  


  
“I’m fucking _keeping_ you.”

  
Chris snorts, gives a half-second thought to the strange, trembling heat working its way up his  spine, spanning across his shoulders, feels a blush work its way up his neck.  


  
He rolls his eyes, voice going wry, “Like you wouldn’t attach yourself to my leg to keep me from leaving you regardless.”

  
Darren smiles brightly, says, “Like a panda during an earthquake.”

  
Chris can already feel the burn in his legs.

  
~

  
Chris is sitting across from Darren in a Pho’ house in Glendale that Darren dragged him to at eleven o’clock at night – it’s quiet and the moon outside the window is bright and Chris sometimes wonders how LA nights can feel so peaceful to him when nothing about LA is ever peaceful.

  
Darren’s using his chopsticks like a pro and Chris is, admittedly, completely petulantly annoyed by it – especially when Darren laughs at him while Chris struggles to pick up noodles with his own. At least, he is up until Darren reaches across the table and shifts Chris’s grip with guitar-callused fingers, adjusting his fingers around the chopsticks and showing him how to hold them correctly.

  
Darren’s hands are always warm and they always linger.

  
“Do you think it’s ridiculous to want to do everything?”

  
Darren slurps up the noodles left on his chopstick, sucking his thumb into his mouth to clean off the broth there, before cocking his head to the side, eyes attentive.

  
“What do you mean?”

  
“Like – everyone falls into something, right? They can be good writers but acting is their passion, or maybe they’re good performers but they can’t live without art. People fall into things, what they want to do. And I – I just. Don’t want to choose. I want to write and act and perform and just – do you think that’s possible? Or. Or do you think I’m just being naive and – I don’t know.”

  
Darren grins at him, slow and genuine, and he shrugs and says, simply, “I think you’re sort of brilliant, man, and you can do anything, everything. All of it. If that’s what you want. Don’t let yourself be forced into making a choice if that’s not what you want – if it’s not even necessary.”

  
Chris sighs and leans back and Darren’s just watching him back, body loose and shoulders gently curving, arms out – so entirely comfortable in his body, and Chris wonders where that _comes_ from. Darren’s still smiling, eyes dark and bright, and everything feels too quiet and too slow, like the edges of everything are blurred, softened.

  
“Yeah, well, you were raised by hippie parents in Hawaii. And _San Francisco_. You think it’s acceptable to – I don’t know, have blind faith in things just working out. It’s weird.”

  
Darren laughs, hands picking up his chopsticks again.

  
“My dad’s a lawyer, Chris.”

  
Chris laughs with him and ducks his head, digging a piece of broccoli out of his bowl.

  
Darren shuffles his shoulders a little bit, eyes still on Chris.

  
“No, but I mean it. Like – I’ve wanted to act since I was kid, yeah, but music is just – you know. It’s – me. It’s part of me, too. It’d be like losing a limb, if I didn’t have music in my life. I don’t see any adequate logic that tells me that I have to choose. I don’t see why I can’t do both.”

  
His chopsticks are waving in the air as he speaks, a piece of pork still between them, and  Chris is just waiting patiently for the moment it flies out and hits some unsuspecting woman on the forehead.  


  
He shifts his focus back, watching Darren, thinking, _yeah, that’s because **you** can. Not everyone is you._  


  
He offers a shrug instead.

  
“I just – I’m completely serious when I say I want to do everything. Even as far as writing goes – not just books, but scripts and screenplays and tv shows and – and you better believe I’m going to be directing everything I can. And everyone tells me that I should focus but –“

  
“ _Fuck_ everyone else.” Darren’s eyes are glimmering, so fucking earnest and impassioned and Chris wants to laugh and he thinks, desperately, _how are you this way? How did you end up as this person? It’s sort of ridiculous. Everyone grew out of believing they can do anything they set their minds to, grew into limitations. Tell me you’ll always be stuck in Neverland, Peter Pan._  


  
“I’m not even – seriously! Just. Fuck ‘em. You can do whatever you want. If you have the drive and the talent and the determination – which obviously you do – then there’s no reason you can’t.”

  
Chris just watches him, can’t really comprehend having a brain like Darren’s – so convinced of his own potential; of _everyone’s_ potential. Chris sort of feels like he’s waiting to see the rough edges.

  
Darren grins a little, slightly bashful in a way that has Chris wanting to reach over and tug on his curls, it’s so goddamn _precious_.

  
“I just – I just wanna’ make a difference, you know? And I can do that in more ways than one, so  I’m going to. Just don’t – don’t choose. That’s cutting yourself in half. I'd rather have all of you.”  


  
Chris’s throat goes tight, tight, tight, feels ridiculous and embarrassingly grateful for a reason he can’t even pinpoint.

  
Darren holds his gaze, eyes gentle, slides down in his seat a little, knee pressing up against Chris’s, and Chris presses back and swallows, swallows, swallows, and then smiles.

  
“Hippie.”

  
Darren’s laugh is loud and bursting and bright and Chris thinks of fireworks, reaches over and steals a piece of pork from Darren’s bowl and feels the heat of Darren’s knee pressed against his, the way it climbs up his body, a steady, breathless incalescence.

  
~

  
Chris’s days pass in nothing more than snatches of laughter and the steady pull of whatever it is Darren has playing on his iPod that day.

  
Everything feels steady, everything feels like a pull, everything feels saturated in summer heat and half-dreamt, a whole new world, strange new world, fitting so much better than anything Chris has ever known.

  
It’s Darren sprawled across his sofa, singing quietly along to the low hum of music coming from the speakers in the corner while Chris listens, sitting on the floor, back to the couch, pretending to read the book in his lap.

  
_‘cause they both end in trouble and start with a grin_   


  
Darren’s singing cuts out, both of them glancing up when a hung-over Bailey shuffles from his room to the front door, yoga pad rolled and tucked under an arm, waving sleepily at them without seeming to ever open his eyes.

  
Darren blinks, says, slowly, “Did you know he was here?”

  
Chris shakes his head, the beginnings of a smile pulling at his lips.

  
Darren nods, eyebrows furrowed. “No, neither did I. Have I ever actually, you know, met him? I feel like I’ve never _met_ him but I still _know_ him and it’s weirding me out.”

  
Chris laughs, turns and picks up Darren’s legs and climbs onto the couch before dropping them in his lap. Darren hums with approval, a soft, throaty sound, shuffles his hips, legs shifting across Chris’s thighs.

  
“He’s Bailey. He becomes your best friend and you don’t even notice it. Ask any of his friends – they can’t tell you how they met but they can tell you how much they love him.”

  
Darren grins, eyes dark as ink beneath half-lowered lashes, says, slowly, casually, “Is he your best friend?”

  
Chris stares, eyebrows drawn together, already suspicious. ”You _know_ who my best friend is.”

  
“But I haven’t met her! How long have we been friends, now? And we still haven’t met. You’re gonna give me a complex, Chris.”

  
Chris says, idly, “It’s actually my deep-seated fear of what you two could accomplish if you were ever in proximity to each other for a significant length of time.”

  
Darren beams. “It’s going to be fucking excellent, isn’t it?”

  
Chris snorts. “God, you’re both going to think so, that’s the horrifying part.”

  
As much as he’d like to deny it, Chris knows that it’s been nearly a month and it’s – significant that he has yet to introduce Ashley to Darren.

  
Truth is, Chris isn’t very good at sharing his friends – simply because he’s never had to. So there’s a part of him that wants to keep Darren’s smile and the linger of his hand and the rush of his words close, tuck it all away somewhere and keep it for himself.

  
He knows, logically, that Darren has other friends. He’s talked about his theater troupe from college, one by one trekking their way down to LA. Talked about people he’s met here in LA, people he’s known for years.

  
But it doesn’t change the fact that Darren’s got this way of looking at Chris like he’s singular – all that world-hungry breadth of intensity focused just on Chris. Makes a boy from Clovis feel like there’s not a thing he can do that wouldn’t be amazing, all of the world at his fingertips and Darren’s small-sun smile to lead the way.

  
Chris can admit his own selfishness – he can also dust the dirt off his hands and get the fuck over himself.

  
Darren jumps topic, and then again, conversation winding and looping until eventually Chris is hearing Darren talk about the cultural significance of fans having consistent contact with the creators and producers and writers of their generation – _can you imagine what culture will be like in ten years? Media dictates that shit and we – we’re all creating it, right now, having the kind of access we do, having a **voice**_ – with Chris not interrupting, just nodding, watching. Chris likes the way Darren’s voice gets fierce and heated, the way he means what he says, always means it, when it matters.

  


Darren kisses his temple before he leaves, hand sliding down Chris’s back, heavy and bleeding warmth, and everything in Chris’s chest feels locked up tight for one single second before it’s rushing out like a cresting wave, there and gone, as if Chris could’ve imagined it.

  
~

  
Ashley traipses into the apartment with a bottle of Jack in hand and one eyebrow sharply raised, shoving the bottle into his chest as she passes.

  
“Now where in the hell have you been, baby boy?”

  
Chris takes the bottle with a roll of his eyes. “I’ve been here. Where have _you_ been?” he snarks.

  
“I call bull shit, young man. I’m going to get you well and truly drunk and then you _will_ tell me why I’ve seen so little of you lately.”

Chris closes the door and turns on his heels, eyeing her speculatively.

  
“Why do you assume you have to get me drunk to get me talking?”

  
Ashley’s lips slant into a smirk. “Because every time I talk to you, you mention what you and your new hippie friend have gotten up to, but then go frustratingly tight-lipped when I ask more about him. And I’m pretty sure he’s why I’ve only been getting you on the phone, lately.”

  
“I don’t see any correlation.” Chris replies obstinately, making his way to the kitchen and pulling out cups and Diet Cokes for their drinks.

  
Ashley hums, lips pursed, and Chris can’t help but smile a little. “I have missed you, though.”

  
“Of course you have, you’d be lost without me,” Ashley says, a shark’s grin on her lips.

  
“You have to admit, you two have gotten pretty close. You’re even letting us interact tomorrow.”

  
Chris laughs and shoves a drink at her. “Shut up and drink, Fink. We’re supposed to be getting drunk,” he orders, before taking a sip of his own.

  
Ashley blows him a kiss and knocks back the Jack and Coke in one gulp, slamming her glass down and saying, sweetly, “Not us, sweetcheeks. Just you.”

  
Chris laughs again, lets Ashley drag him to the couch, the bottle of Jack coming with them.

  
Two hours and many Jack and Cokes that devolved into mostly-Jack and very-little-Cokes later, Chris has his head pillowed on Ashley’s lap and Ashley’s hands buried in his hair.

  
“So, are you ready to talk about your boy yet, Colfer?”

  
Chris frowns, says, words feeling a little round and unwieldy in his mouth, “He is not – he is not _my boy_ , Ash. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  
Ashley laughs, then says, affectionately, “Oh, you are _drunk_ , aren’t you?”

  
Chris nods, huffing, head lolling across her thigh – his face feels hot, body heavy, everything slow and fizzing like champagne.

  
“It was the Jack,” he informs her, very solemn.

  
She snickers at him, patting him on the stomach. “Really, how’re things with him? Has he worn down your world-weary cynicism yet?”

  
Chris frowns again, more aggressively. “I am not – cynical. I’m just. I. I am – really, very drunk.”

  
Ashley makes a low cooing noise that Chris knows he’d find as a great source of indignation if he were sober.

  
“And we’re _friends_.”

  
“I know you’re friends, relax. I am asking how your _friendship_ is coming along,” she says, though Chris thinks there’s something like amusement there, around her eyes.

  
“It’s – good. He’s. Very nice. He’s – good.” Chris falls silent and knows Ashley is still watching him, can’t help the smile unfolding, silly and pleased.

  
“He’s the sweetest kind of asshole. You’re going to love him.”

  
Ashley smiles and kisses him on the cheek, murmurs, “I’m sure I will,” before she shuffles him into a sitting position. She stands and then hauls him up, taking most of his weight without so much as staggering.

  
“Time for bed, drunky. We’re supposed to be meeting Darren for lunch tomorrow and I will not be stuck dragging your hungover ass out of bed at noon,” Ashley tells him. “You’re bitchy when you’re tired and in pain simultaneously.”

  
Chris blinks and smiles sweetly. “But you’re bitchy all the time. You owe me.”

  
“Watch it,” Ashley warns, glancing at him with a lethally raised eyebrow as she drags him to his room with a firm grip around his waist.

  
“You’re really strong.”

  
Ashley cracks a grin. “Well, one of us has to be, since you’re a toothpick.”

  
“Hey!” Chris glares. “I am not a – I have – I have _biceps_ , okay.”

  
Ashley laughs, yanks the covers back and pushes him onto the bed.

  
“Go to sleep before you hurt yourself with that scowl.”

  
“You’re cruel.”

  
Ashley sings _soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur_ , under her breath, laughing loud when Chris manages to hit her with a pillow while she lies down on the other side.  


  
Chris flips onto his stomach and smiles into his pillow, mumbles out a slurred, “Love you, Ash,” before he’s sinking into sleep.  


  
~

  
Chris has his laptop open on his lap, writing and erasing words so frequently he’s half-convinced he should just give it up as a lost cause.

  
He’s pretty sure that by letting Darren and Ashley meet today, he caused an unholy alliance to be formed. _They’re going to be an ungodly terror together,_ he thinks, wryly, a little pleased. Darren has the exact kind of humor that encourages the more terrible parts of Ashley’s – at some point, all the other customers just gave up trying to quell Ashley’s loud laughter with dark glares.

  
He met Ashley two years ago, eighteen years old and fresh out of Clovis, still closer to home than not, and she was exactly the kind of friend he needed. She was loud and unapologetic and aggressive in all the right ways, loves in that same way.

  
Chris knows that there are parts of him that are still fresh out of Clovis – that he still takes comfort in Ashley’s loud, unapologetic, aggressive form of love. She’s the reason he decided to move out to LA in the first place.

  
Maybe he’s different now, walks with his chin up, shoulders back, because he _got out_. But he’s still Chris – and Chris grew up in Clovis, in ignorance, and he _fought_ for this, bare-knuckled and dirty and ugly; he fought the way you fight when you’ve got nothing else left.

  
Sometimes he thinks that he hasn’t quite dropped his fists.

  
Chris sighs and leans back until he’s lying on his bed, grinding his palms into his eyes.

  
His phone vibrates with a text and thirty minutes later Darren’s walking into his room and collapsing next to him, snatching Chris’s pillow and pushing it beneath his chin.

  
“Fancy seeing you here. Twice in one day - we just keep bumping into each other.”

  
Chris snorts, eyes him. “You sent me a message that said _I’m coming over – I hope your door is unlocked._ ”

  
Darren grins, says, “I could sense your angst from home, Christopher. I can recognize a frustrated writer when I see one.”

  
Chris laughs and lets Darren haul him up off the bed, his hand a steadying weight at Chris's hip.

  
“You sure that’s not purely coincidental?”

  
Darren shrugs, beams, “I’m fucking starving and I _know_ you cook. It’s just particularly fortuitous that you happen to be beating your head against a word-shaped brick wall.”

  
“You know every good place to eat in a fifty-mile radius,” Chris points out, voice wry, letting Darren lead him to the living room.

  
“I want a home-cooked meal, sue me.”

  
Chris sinks into the sofa next to Darren, strange mood already lifting.

  
“I just had lunch with you like, three hours ago. I can’t _comprehend_ your metabolism.”

  
“Please,” Darren prods, pouting.

  
“That’s not nearly as cute as you think it is.”

  
Darren grins, tosses out an easy, “Liar,” eyes catching Chris’s and holding.

  
Chris takes a breath, looks away.

  
“French Toast? And _only_ if you help.”

  
“Fuck, you’re my favorite; I’m setting up _camp_ here.”   


  
“I always feed the strays. I don’t know why I _always feed the strays_. Can’t get rid of ‘em after that. You’d think I’d learn my lesson by now,” Chris sighs.

  
“But I’m your favorite,” Darren says, eyes glittering.

  
Chris points a finger him, eyebrows raised, “You don’t know that.”

  
Darren grins slow and wide, sparkling with innocence. “Yeah, I do.”

  
Chris breathes and rolls his eyes, ignores the heat climbing up his neck like he’s red-handed and  leaving prints everywhere, like he’s been stealing from the cookie jar and didn’t even know it until he was caught in the middle of the mess.  


  
Chris turns on his heel, sing-songs, “C’mon, boy,” as he saunters towards the kitchen, voice airy and saccharine-sweet.  


  
Darren laughs, says, very succinctly, “Fuck you.”

  
Chris leans against the counter, listens to Darren’s laughter and presses his smile into his fingertips.

  
“I don’t know why I keep you around,” Darren says, as he rounds the corner into the kitchen.

  
“I thought you were setting up camp?” Chris reminds him, voice as dry as he can manage with his lips threatening to break into a smile again.

  
“Ah, _food,_ ” Darren agrees sagely, nodding.

  
Chris gives into the urge to laugh and Darren smiles bright and sweet – the sort of smile Chris feels somewhere behind his ribs.  
Chris isn’t sure he likes the way his entire body goes warm with it, bones and all.

  
~

  
Darren and Chris sit across from each other in a dim, brick-walled pizza parlor twenty minutes from Darren's apartment, down a slightly disconcerting side-street and pressed between a tobacco shop and a thrift-store. Darren's eyes are on Chris. Chris isn't sure he knows what it feels like to not have Darren's eyes on him, these days - a weight and a heat and a tenderness all at once, something fond, and it always snags in Chris's chest, a hook and a tug and all the breath shaking in his lungs.

  
Chris takes a bite of his _sinfully_ good pizza - loaded with tomatoes, pancetta, and cheese - waiting patiently because Darren's cheshire grin is always a prelude to Chris indulging Darren in anything he wants and enjoying it too much, anyway.

  
"I'm gonna be playing at this coffee shop in a few weeks," Darren says, so genuinely enthusiastic it’s infectious, Chris already starting to smile.

  
"You're always playing something, somewhere, Darren. If I’d known you were constantly _doing things_ I’d have avoided this friendship. My life was not this exhausting, before."

  
Darren beams at him, because he knows it's true and he's entirely shameless.

  
"You love letting me drag you places. You're a shitty liar," Darren says, showing all his teeth.

  
Chris rolls his eyes, still powerless against the smile growing on his face.

  
"So?"

  
Chris blinks, says, slowly, " _So_?"

  
Darren rolls his eyes and kicks out with his foot, hitting Chris in the leg, which leads to a five-minute derailment of the conversation due to Chris needing to retaliate, ending with one of Chris's legs trapped between Darren's calves and both of them laughing, making a scene because Darren drags everyone around him into his asshole tendencies.

  
" _So_ \- you're going, right? I like seeing you there."

  
Chris yanks his trapped foot again before giving it up for lost and settling in his seat, letting his leg relax, ignoring the smug grin Darren shoots him, thinking circles around the warmth climbing up his chest, his throat.

  
"I went to the last one. And the one before that. _And_ the one before that - I'm pretty sure I've attended every gig you've had since the moment we became friends."

  
Darren looks pleased, something soft there in the ease around his shoulders, the cant of his head.

  
"Exactly. I am very fond of this tradition - I really don't think we should disrupt it."

  
Chris laughs, rolling his straw-wrapper into a ball and flicking it at Darren's forehead. "Well, I'm not one to disrupt tradition."

  
Darren pulls a face at him that Chris is pretty sure Darren didn't mean to be cute. Pretty sure.

  
"Shitty liar," Darren enunciates slowly, popping a piece of pancetta into his mouth, smacking his lips.

  
"Idiot."

  
"You're the one who's sticking around," Darren trills, eyes bright.

  
Chris snorts, slanting him a look, entirely unimpressed. " _Shut up_. Yes, I will go to the _inevitably_ hipster coffee shop to see you."

  
Chris ignores Darren's beaming face in favor of finishing his pizza. Darren’s legs stretch out and press close, so they tangle with Chris’s beneath the table, and Chris can feel the warmth of it all the way to the bottom of his spine.

  
Everything catches him in the stomach or the ribs or the chest - this slow-growing contentment, this precarious, tumultuous climb toward something - _something_ \- and it makes Chris want to rush through, get to the last page and spoil the end of this story because at least then he'd feel less like he's waiting for the sudden hair-pin turn that he won't quite catch in time.

  
Darren says, around the last bite of pizza, "My place? Movies? I'll let you choose."

  
Darren's eyes are dark and open and entreating and Chris tries to expand his lungs through the clamp around his ribs.

  
"Your place," he agrees.

  
He thinks he might be able to wait this one out, anyway.

  
~

  
Darren drops down behind Chris, who’s sitting in front of the shelf Darren has entirely devoted to Disney movies. Darren’s little shoe-box apartment, with every available space crammed full of pictures and instruments, posters and playbills and odd little knick-knacks picked up from the various thrift-shops Chris knows Darren frequents at least once a week - and he still manages to dedicate all that space to his obsession.

  
"I'm trying to figure out if it's strange or adorable that you have a Disney collection more extensive than an actual five year old," Chris tells him, contemplatively, not bothering to look back at Darren as he speaks.

  
Darren leans forward and hooks his chin over Chris's shoulder, and Chris can feel Darren's eyelashes brushing his jaw, and it's just entirely too close in all the right ways. He can feel the smile already on Darren's face - Darren smiles easy, like all of his joy is waiting just under the surface.

  
"Don't you dare mock _The Collection._ That is a work of art."

  
Chris snorts, shifting his shoulders, the press of Darren's chest against his back making Chris want to rock forward again, or back, or stay perfectly, perfectly still – Chris doesn’t like to think long enough to figure out which.

  
"I can practically hear the capital letters, there. Did you always want to be a princess, too?"

  
Darren plops a noisy kiss on Chris's cheek, says, brightly, "Mulan was a badass and if you didn't want to be her at least once in your life, I weep for you," as he vaults up from his position on the floor.

  
Chris isn't sure what happens to his face at that particular admission, but it makes Darren laugh and declare a Disney marathon.

  
"I thought I was choosing?" Chris demands, though he lets Darren drag him up and take his place on the floor, shuffling through the DVDs.

  
"I am remanding my original offer. But you can choose next time," Darren says, magnanimously.

  
Chris laughs and nudges Darren’s head as he walks by, going toward the kitchen.

  
"Asshole. I reserve the right to eat all of your popcorn, then."

  
Chris can hear Darren scoff from the living room. "As if you won’t, anyway."

  
"I'm a growing boy," Chris insists, putting the package into the microwave.

  
"You're full of shit, is what you are," Darren calls back, laughing.

Chris continues with a smirk, disregarding Darren’s response completely. "Just because some of us don't know what that's like anymore..."  


  
Chris laughs when Darren comes up beside him, locking arms around his waist, squeezing. "That was so uncalled for," Darren says, lips close to Chris’s neck.

  
"Don't be so sensitive," Chris replies, innocently, around whatever it is that’s caught hard in his throat.

  
"Dick," Darren accuses, but he's smiling, Chris can feel it. "C'mon, Mulan's starting."

  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming, not like I haven't seen it before."

  
"You've never seen it with me, though," Darren says, dragging him to the couch after Chris grabs the bag from the microwave.

  
Darren ends up singing _Reflection_ to Chris, on his knees and too earnest, clutching Chris's hand to his chest, until eventually Chris gives it up for lost and joins in; they end up wailing it at the top of their lungs, forgotten popcorn littering the floor.

  
"Your neighbors must hate you," Chris says through the laughter that keeps building and building, voice high.

  
Darren’s watching him, smile wide and warm, shrugging blithely. "I'm doing something with music, somewhere, at all hours of the night. I wouldn't be surprised if everyone hated me a little."

  
Chris tugs on the lone curl falling on Darren's forehead, replies, dryly, "Somehow, I doubt that's the case."

  
Darren lists to the side until he's leaning on Chris's shoulder, staring up with bright, imploring eyes. "What about you, Chris? Got any hate in your heart for little old me?"

  
Chris smacks Darren with the nearest pillow, says, deadpan, "Oh, yeah, can't stand you," and goes down laughing when Darren tackles him to the floor, shouting and using sincerely ruthless tactics that involve fingers on ribs until Chris is gasping and both of them are ignoring the agitated pounding on the wall coming from Darren's neighbor.

~

  
Darren begs Chris to come over and make dinner because he can’t be trusted to make anything edible on his own.

  
( _“I’ll starve, Chris, do you want that to happen? You don’t want that to happen, right?”_  


  
_“It **would** make my life so much easier…”_   


  
_“You are mean. Wow. That was mean and unnecessary and a complete fucking lie, you filthy liar, why am I friends with you?”_   


  
_“I have tiny teeth. It’s a thing for people. Provide alcohol and promise to help and I will show up and eventually there might be food.”_   


  
_“Sold! You totally love me. You would be lost without me. And my human-sized teeth. And inherent veracity.”_   


  
_“Give me half an hour. I’ll be there soon.”_   


  
_“Bless you. Bless your cow.”_   


  
_“You can **not** have my milk for free.”_   


  
_“You’re so fucking demanding, Jesus.”_ )

  
By the time Chris gets there Darren’s apartment smells like weed and Darren’s eyes are hazy and half-lidded when he opens the door, smiling warm and easy at Chris. Chris can’t help it, takes one look at him and laughs and shoves him inside while he steps in after him.

  
“There is no way a high Darren is something that should be allowed in polite society.”

  
Darren blinks at him, grin stretching slowly as they collapse side-by-side on his small, cushiony green couch, Darren pulling Chris in close.

  
“You – may make a valid point.”

  
Chris tries not to put his chin in his hands and just stare at Darren – he’s sort of disgustingly endearing like this, a little rumpled and scruffy and soft-eyed; unbearably sweet.

  
Darren blinks again and then his eyes go suddenly alert, body tightening. “Wait, wait, wait – you don’t mind, do you? I’m sorry, I’m an asshole, I should have asked, especially when I invited you and I know you don’t like smoking –“ and his words are rushing so quickly out of his mouth they’re practically tripping over each other.

  
Chris laughs, reaching up and putting his hand over Darren’s mouth to stop the influx of words.

  
“Darren, it’s fine, relax. I’ve lived in LA long enough to at least be able to acknowledge how tame weed is. I really don’t care.”

  
Darren smiles against his hand and the tension rushes out of him all at once. Chris marvels at his ability to go from anxious to completely at ease in the space between breaths.

  
Chris removes his hand and taps him on the cheek, murmuring a fond, “Idiot.”

  
Darren shrugs at him, shoulders shifting beneath his soft, worn, gray t-shirt. His eyes are half-lidded, liquescent from beneath his lashes; openly, unashamedly _tender_ when he looks at Chris.

  
Chris looks away, glancing around before levering himself up, making his way to the overflowing bookshelf in the corner, crowded next to the small flat-screen TV.

  
Chris hasn’t been able to pin-point why he’s so comfortable here – even from the first time he came over, both of them collapsing on the couch and settling into a movie marathon after a day of thrift-shopping, Chris feeling pliant, blood running slow.

  
“It’s weird that I’ve always felt so at-home here,” Chris says idly, picking up a vintage cigarette case with a gold peacock embossed on the front, examining it curiously. It’s new.

  
“Why?”

  
Chris turns, holding up the case with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t even smoke.”

  
“No - but it has a _peacock_ on it, man.”

  
Chris snorts, but concedes, setting it back on top of the shelf.

  
“Why’s it weird?”

  
Chris offers a shrug, turning a little so he can catch Darren’s eye while he pulls out a Queen vinyl from between battered copies of To Kill a Mockingbird and Good Omens.

  
“It just is. You’ve never even given me a tour.”

  
Darren grins at him, eyes lighting with it, stripes of sunlight shining out from the half-open blinds and making him look like something out of a photograph, dust motes floating in the air between them.

  
“This place is the size of a _closet_ ; I don’t think it warrants one.”

  
“You never even thought to offer one, don’t try and pretend you have manners.”

  
Darren laughs, not looking the least bit abashed, body loose as he essentially sinks into the couch, eyes watching Chris. “Mom put in her best effort, though.”

  
Chris laughs, puts the record back and lets Darren pull him back to the couch, mildly sniping about the lack of alcohol and letting Darren rest his cheek on his shoulder while he turns on the TV, flicking through channels.

  
~

  
Eventually Chris pulls himself away from Darren, now sprawled across the couch, head on Chris’s thigh and legs thrown over the arm. Darren whines, sort of pitifully, really, and it makes Chris laugh, swatting at Darren’s reaching hands as he makes his way to the kitchen.

  
“Are you sure don’t want to join me?” Darren calls, and Chris leans so he can see around the corner of the wall that separates the kitchen from the rest of the house, sees Darren holding and lighting a small bubbler.

  
Chris straightens, moving further into the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets as he calls back, “I’m above the influence, Darren, stop pressuring me,” just to hear Darren’s laugh.

  
“I’m making vegetable stir-fry,” Chris informs him, pulling out every vegetable Darren has from his fridge and grabbing the rest of the ingredients from the cabinets.

  
“You are my very favorite.”

  
Chris snorts, opening and closing drawers until he finds a knife and a cutting board, brings along the bag of marshmallows he finds, too, and starts chopping the carrots.

  
“You have _marshmallows_ ; why don’t we always eat here? Do you have graham crackers and chocolate, too?”

  
“I totally forgot about those. Gimme’ one?”

  
Chris laughs, says, “No, I’m busy providing sustenance for us. Get it yourself.”

  
“Just throw one to me, please? Chris, please-please-please-“

  
“Darren, _shut up_ , Jesus.”

  
Chris rounds the corner, grin pulling at his lips, leans against the wall with the bag of marshmallows in his hand. Darren’s back to being sprawled across the couch and Chris can faintly hear him humming to himself.

  
"This was supposed to be a team effort, by the way, and you're being _impressively_ unhelpful right now."

  
Darren lifts his head, eyes hazy and dark, says, words rolling out soft-slow and lazy, "Go team," pumping a fist halfheartedly.

  
Chris throws a marshmallow at him and watches long enough to see Darren arch his back and crane his neck so it lands in his mouth, grin unfurling bright and pleased, eyes crinkling with it.

  
"I am outstanding," he crows, both hands in the air.

  
Chris laughs as he walks away, calling back, "Your self-worth cannot be dependent on how well you catch food in your mouth - that's just pathetic."

  
"No, it's based on how many people I can get to throw food toward my mouth in the first place," he hears Darren chirp.

  
"Also pathetic."

  
"Your _face_ is pathetic," Darren calls, raspy-voiced and petulant. There's a pause and Chris grins, trying not to laugh, waits for it.

  
"I'm lying, I'm so lying, I am a filthy, filthy liar, your face is excellent, Chris, _Christopher_ \- your face is _exceptional_."

  
Darren's head pops around the corner as he walks into the kitchen, wide-eyed, the edges of a grin at his lips. Chris laughs helplessly, pressing his hand to Darren's forehead.

  
"You are high," he informs him very seriously, pushing his hand against his head before dropping it. Darren rocks back on his heels with the momentum of it, grinning.

  
"Yeah," and then, humming low in his throat, " _exceptional_."

  
Chris shoos him to the counter across from the one Chris is working at and goes back to chopping vegetables, occasionally tossing a piece of carrot at Darren just to see the slow, satisfied grin on his face when he catches it in his mouth.

  
Eventually Darren gets his guitar and plays quietly while Chris cooks, fingers moving slow across the strings. Sometimes he hums along, or sings, voice a breathed-out husk of a thing that makes goose-bumps break out across Chris’s arms, down his back.

  
Chris is standing at the stove, sautéing the vegetables, when Darren sets the guitar down and comes up behind him, pressing close, hands bracketing his hips and chin hooked over Chris's shoulder. There's a small place in his stomach that flips, a little kick in his heart.

  
"God, you're wonderful, that smells fucking delicious, man," Darren murmurs, voice still a little raspy and smoke-rounded, all the edges sanded down.

  
Chris swallows, smiles a little, says, " _Someone’s_ coming down."

  
Darren hums quietly, head lolling to the side, breath puffing against Chris's neck, hands tightening around Chris's hips. Chris lets it go on for a minute, letting himself enjoy it, just for a second - there's something about this Darren, this Darren that's calm and slow and so fucking sweet, soft like nothing in the world has ever touched him. He pulls away though, he always pulls away, has to because Darren won't. Never does.

  
Darren turns, leaning back against the counter, watching Chris with a heavy, pensive gaze, eyes tracking him, and Chris isn't - Chris can't deal with it, with whatever Darren's about to say. He knows it, can feel it.

  
"Let's eat," Chris says, before Darren can speak.

  
Darren watches him for a moment, and Chris freezes, heart skidding in his chest. There's a flush of relief that breaks through him when Darren drops his gaze, nodding as he murmurs, "Yeah, yeah, I'm starving."

  
They eat and Chris lets Darren press all along his side on the sofa, a steady, familiar weight, something tight and low in his stomach that he wants to worry at, prod until it unravels.

  
He matches his breathing to Darren’s and tips his head back against the couch and lets it go.

  
~

  
At the bookstore where he works, at the very back, there’s this huge, leather-bound, calligraphic copy of The Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales. The owners let him read it as often as he likes as long as he’s careful and he can never really help himself. The pages feel heavy in his fingers, the words written by hand, in real ink; so painstakingly, beautifully done that the world feels wide and free and fey when it’s in his hands.

  
That book is the love of his goddamn _life._  


  
This is the book he’s been rhapsodizing about for the last ten minutes to Darren and Ashley, all three of them sitting in a loose circle on the floor in his living room, iced glasses filled to the brim with vodka and lemonade in their hands, music a comfortable backdrop to their easy conversation, winding through the spaces between words.

  
It’s hot enough that Darren’s wearing loose cargos rolled to his calves and a tank-top, all gleaming California-sun skin and sweat-damp curls, nodding along to the music. Chris can’t seem to stop distractedly rubbing the palms of his hands over his thighs before he catches himself, forces them to settle on the carpet.

  
_God knows, God knows, I want to break free_   


  
Ashley presses her sweating glass to heat-reddened cheeks, drawls out, “Christopher, please tell me you don’t fantasize about that book at night. When you’re alone under the covers and just need somebody to love.”

  
She follows up with a very helpful hand motion, in case Chris hasn’t gotten the point.

  
Chris can feel his cheeks burn, lifts his chin anyway, replies, dry and flat, “Every night, honey.”

  
Darren laughs, loud, head thrown back, neck glistening and Adams apple bobbing. Chris swallows hard and takes a gulp of his lemonade.

  
It’s not new, this feeling in his stomach; sudden, tight, quaking tension that creeps through his body, slow and trembling and throbbing, heart like a drum in his chest, every vertebrae like melting heat.

  
It’s not new but this is Darren and Chris thinks it’s a little late to be realizing just how _acute_ it is _now_ – it’s not as if he hasn’t noticed, but he feels it in his throat, his spine, visceral and subtle and unacknowledged until it wasn’t, until it couldn’t be.

  
Chris tunes back into the conversation with a jolt, pulse a mad, stumbling beat fluttering in his throat.

  
The curve of Darren’s smile is boyish and mischievous, and he’s saying, “No one is ever gonna compare to that book. He looked like he was going into raptures for a second, there,” to a smirking Ashley.

  
“Oh, I think someone can,” Ashley replies, eyeing Chris speculatively.

  
“It’s a paragon of the beauty of books,” Chris insists, determinedly not meeting Ashley’s eye, heart beating jackrabbit fast. He thinks he can feel it against his ribs.

  
Darren leans back on his hands, head tilted, smile still playing along his lips. Chris’s hands curl into the carpet.

  
“Did it feel like Hogwarts?”

  
Chris blinks and then laughs, and Darren looks _so satisfied_ with himself.

  
“Yes.” Chris says, decisive, grinning.

  
Darren shifts forward, says, with hushed urgency, “ _We have to steal it_.”

  
Chris feels a rush of affection so fierce he has to breathe through it.

  
“You two are literally the biggest nerds I know,” Ashley interjects.

  
“We’re thinking about forming a club,” Darren says, straight-faced.

  
Chris laughs, tension washed out, loose with heat and alcohol and love for the two people in front of him, and it’s a good thing, a good feeling, and he’s thinking, _these are good days, you’re here, you’re right here, this is good, this is so good_ – and he’s never felt so comforted, never felt so sure in his skin.

  
Even when he can’t help the run of his thoughts, their particular derailments – a hurtling rush into _Darren’s skin looks like honey_ that tailspins into Chris thinking that the bare-bones of what keeps Darren together might melt away with the press of his tongue, his teeth, his itching, eager fingertips – before he’s pulled back into constantly-evolving conversation.

  
They eventually migrate to the kitchen, and Chris has to think a little too carefully about simple things like the bend of his knees and the pivot of his feet. Darren’s steadying hand at the base of his spine should probably help but all Chris can register is the emanating heat of it.

  
Darren and Chris end up lying side-by-side on the cool tile-floor, Ashley sitting on the counter next to the fridge and periodically sticking her head in the freezer. Chris can feel Darren’s hip pressed against his own, his thigh, the bare skin of his calf. Chris is more than buzzed and less than drunk and the world is soft and he _likes_ riding the edge like this, limbs unwound, stretched like taffy – he likes the way Darren’s eyes are dark and glittering when he looks at Chris, likes the particular tilt of his smiles, and the way he’s even more careless with his touch than usual, closer to drunk than Chris but not quite as gone as Ashley.

  
Eventually, Chris will heave himself up and grip Darren by the hand and pull him up, too, and they’ll make food while Ashley lords over them, mock-stern and sincerely impatient. They’ll eat and sober up just enough, only to get drunk again just as the sun sinks below the city skyline, casting everything in low, warm-shadowed light.

  
Darren’s eyes will be very bright and very distracting and he will _watch_ Chris and Chris will feel it all the way down; the center of his ribs, the marrow of his bones.

  
For now, the weight and solidity of Darren beside him and the bright, suffusive laughter coming from him and Ashley make him want to _stay_ , just a little longer, bask the way he usually wouldn’t.

  
He thinks he’s maybe learning how to keep things, little by little; dropping the weights forced on his back, because he has no interest in being Atlas these days, and he’s rather taken with the thought of standing with his spine straight, keeping his head up.

  
Darren’s humming _Penny Lane_ as loud as he possibly can and Ashley’s still laughing and Chris can feel his own smile blooming slow and wide and helpless.

  
He’s thinking of Neverland.

  
He’s thinking _take me along, Peter Pan._  


  
The world feels soft.

  
~

  
He doesn’t know where to put his _hands._  


  
(Darren takes him to a park, somewhere green and serene in the center of a rushing city, and he drags Chris from out of the shade of a tree and strips off his sweat-damp shirt and insists Chris play Frisbee with him, all glistening skin and the play of his muscles beneath it. Chris’s palms feel hot.)

  
And there’s Darren, that gaze on him, always, dark-eyed and blinking slowly, a weight that hooks heat from Chris’s spine to his chest, and he looks so calm, so kind and gentle, Chris can hardly stand it.

  
Chris spends most of the next week feeling like he’s walking a tightrope.

  
~

  
Chris knows that Darren sees him as soon as he walks into the small, crowded coffee shop – he’s already on stage, tuning his guitar, and he looks up and catches Chris’s eye, smiles like every sincerity is trapped in the lines of his face, right there in his open-mouthed grin.

  
Chris breathes, everything going very small and very tight in his body, shakes himself out and finds a seat near the back, still close enough to make faces at Darren that make him laugh mid-song.

  
Darren sings everything from Disney to Great American Songbook – breaks out into a cover of Reflection and winks at Chris while Chris laughs and hides hot cheeks behind his palms and tries to ignore the way it all balls in his throat, because Darren sings it soft, voice full. It wraps around his spine, something ascending slow and warm, and he's not sure why it feels like he’s giving ground.

  
There's a pause after the song, and Chris watches Darren swallow, his eyes on Chris, glimmering and round like something created just to hit Chris at the center.

  
He leans forward and says into the microphone, “This is the last one tonight, guys. Thanks for  being such a great audience. This song is, uh – it has some meaning, for me. From the very moment I heard it, it’s held meaning. I hope – I hope you can _hear_ that.”  


  
Everything in Chris seizes up so still, so still, like a held breath, everything just freezing in place, because Darren's eyes are holding steady on Chris's, something so carefully, carefully tender, there.

  
The opening chords are familiar, but it isn’t until he sings that Chris gets it, and all of the world has stopped with him.  


  
_I swear when I grow up I won't just buy you a rose_  
 _I will buy the flower shop, and you will never be lonely_

  


He sings it slow and, somehow, gentle, and so sweet it hurts, voice so bare and raw Chris feels like his lungs are trying to fold in on themselves – Darren sings like he's pulling the contents of his heart through the spaces between his ribs, laying them in his open palm.

  
_Even if the sun stops waking up over the fields_  
 _I will not leave, I will not leave 'til it's on time_  
 _So just take my hand, you know that I will never leave your side_

  
Chris – Chris has this feeling like he’s been staring at this man this whole time thinking he’s just a man, just another human being, a really exceptional one, but still _human_ , the blood and bones of him still everything Chris is familiar with, only to realize there’s sunlight in his veins, and he’s so bright, so bright, so bright and _known_ because Chris _knows_ him, has spent summer days decades long by his side.

  
It’s fireworks making a ladder up his spine, right to his core.

  
Darren finally looks away and Chris feels like he’s underwater. Everything muted, everything but the trip of his erratic heart in his chest, thumping loud in his ears, and the sound of Darren’s voice, breaking in all the places that make Chris lose track of his breath between inhale and exhale.

  
_So just take my hand and know that I will never leave your side_   


  
Darren ends the song with a soft, high hum, eyes closed, as if he’s just sung hallowed words.

  
Chris thinks he looks golden beneath the stage lights.

  
Darren looks up like he’s coming awake, stepping back from the microphone and lighting up in a grin at the applause, eyes wide, luminescent in the dim lights. He sets his guitar down and jumps off the stage, and Chris figures he has about fifteen seconds to make a decision.

  
Because sometimes you have to make a decision. Maybe he isn’t ready, maybe there’s part of him still stuck in Clovis, can all but feel the high-hanging sun beating down on his back, the muscle-memory of the way he tried to pull his body inward, away from everything around him like he could be unobtrusive enough to pass by without notice –  but a decision has to be made and he's the one who has to make it and it's terrifying but it's where he's at; forks in the road and treading lines and walking tightropes.

  
Darren reaches him and there’s a single second where Chris feels like every word is sticking in his throat.

  
He tries to breathe and thinks that, really, every moment since meeting Darren has been a long, slow, agonizing concession, and he just never realized it.

  
He holds up his hand, offering it to Darren, and sort of feels like his entire heart is being yanked to his palm, can all but feel the naked pulse of it in his trembling fingers.

  
Darren looks at him with world-wide eyes, and then his proffered hand like an assent, and Chris  can hear Darren’s breath shiver out of him before he’s reaching for Chris’s hand, interlocking their fingers, and then tugging Chris to standing.  


  
Chris lets him, his naked heart beating a million stupid honesties to the tip of his tongue, but Chris thinks _slow down, we’ve got time left to be lazy;_ decides that maybe he doesn’t have to force out all his confessions now, weeds out that thing in his chest like a restless, thumping animal, that thing that beats _love love love_ like a kick-drum.

  
“I would buy you a flower shop.”

  
Darren’s laugh gusts out like it hurts, one hand going to Chris's jaw, his voice a quiet rasp out of his throat, “I fucking love you.”

  
And then Darren’s pulling him in, hands gentle and strong, lips on his, kissing him deep and slow and warm and so sweet, so meant, pressing in close, and closer, and there’s a shift in Chris’s chest and it’s like a key in a lock; this trembling, aching throb and then breathing like he’s never breathed, sharp and stinging and all at once like he’s taking in air for the first time.

  
Chris kisses back hard and hungry, thinking, _yes, yes, yes_ , hands grasping at Darren’s waist, and maybe he’s still a little afraid, because his heart’s pounding like he’s surrounded by traps and holding something precious. But Darren is living-breathing-solid boy beneath his hands, pressing him back against the table like he can’t get close enough, tongue in his mouth and hips against hips, and everything in Chris is grounded to Darren’s side, everything in Chris lurching with _right here, right here, right here._  


  
Darren pulls away gradually, breath coming out in quiet pants, eyes half-lidded and mouth bitten-red. Chris's every muscle is straining to press against him all over again, and he pulls his hands away, grips the table behind him to remind himself that they’re in _public_ , no matter how dim the lighting, no matter the steadfast, breathless miracle that is Darren’s heart held in Chris’s hands.

  
“You _serenaded_ me, you fucking hippie.”

  
Darren’s slow-growing smile is so bright and so warm, like he's got the sun sitting somewhere in his chest, laughing softly like it’s the only way he can let out all the _light_ in him.

  
“You love the shit out of me, you have no argument.”

  
Chris thinks _yes_ , thinks _take me along_ ; kisses him again, like he can catch the light and keep it within himself.

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i make no profit from this work of fiction. and it is just that - a very creatively licensed work of fiction that did not happen and is entirely made up by my over-active imagination. both Chris and Darren are actual people and this is not Stranger Than Fiction so this is not true, real, nor dictating or documenting anyone’s actual life, etc., etc.


End file.
